


To Each Their Own

by keiscult (PoisonedGrail)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Peter Parker, Blood and Gore, Brotherly Affection, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Explicit Language, Fix-It of Sorts, Guilt, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Peter Parker, Sad Carl Grimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26262052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonedGrail/pseuds/keiscult
Summary: Peter barely managed to keep himself from throwing up. He looked away, unable to bear the sight of her body any longer."Wh-at the h-hell?" he whispered between a sob.He'd only ever seen three dead bodies in his life and none of them were like this.He understood, suddenly, why the shuffling of feet had stopped so abruptly and why the men's knives were so bloody.He didn't go looking for the other body.or; after Peter dies in the battle against Thanos, he finds himself in a different universe, one where everyone and everything is out to kill him. (this will be a multiple chapter series)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter has been edited and changed on 05/11/20 so if you've already read this chapter I recommend reading it again. 
> 
> I'm not sure if anyone is gonna read this but..
> 
> The main reason I decided on a TWD x Marvel crossover is because I wanted to imagine and write out how the world would change Peter, whether it would change Peter and how he would react to or change their choices because he has a very concrete set of morals that he almost always follows. 
> 
> I also just lowkey love both the MCU & TWD. Plus, Michonne's character being played by Danai Gurira who also acts as Okoye... I mean c'mon I couldn't resist writing a crossover.
> 
> Keep in mind that this is my first fanfiction so I will make a lot of mistakes. I also havent watched any of the later seasons of TWD so there may be a few inaccuracies here and there. Thank you :)
> 
> (I'm also pretty bad at writing ngl..)

At first, it was a prickling sensation running along his skin. Like pins and needles. Then, it started to burn, gradually from his toes to his head, he could feel it creep through his body and as he witnessed the others crumble into ash it began to worsen like a flame scorching through his veins.

What was happening?

He began to tremble, watching the arms he held out in front of himself as if waiting for the moment they, too, fell apart.

Peter's eyes found Tony, the man had his back to him as he listened to the Wizard, who said something that Peter didn't bother to comprehend. Soon after, the Wizard disintegrated as well. His heart clenching in fear and his breath coming short, Peter could feel how close he was to death, a breadth away from being a pile of dust like the others. He didn't want to end up like them. He didn't want to die. He called to Tony, desperately hoping that his mentor who always had the answers would have one now.

"Mr. Stark.."

Tony turned. Realisation hit him suddenly and his face morphed into one of grief. Silent, he watched as his kid wobbled in place, barely able to stand.

"I don't feel so good."

Peter stared at Tony, hoping that his mentor would give him the answer that he craved. Stop him from leaving like everyone else did.

"You're alright."

A second surge of pain, strong enough to push the air from his lungs, reassured him he wasn't. He wasn't going to be okay. But neither could accept that.

"I don-don't know what's happening. I don't- I don't-"

He fell into Mr. Stark.

He didn't want to go. He wanted to see his Aunt and apologise to her for flying into space without her permission. He wanted to see his best friend Ned, the person he'd confided in and spent hours doing everything and nothing with. He wasn't ready to see his parents and his uncle, not yet. He knew they didn't want to see him so soon either.

"I don't want to go, I don't wanna go. Sir, please." _help me_.

His voice shook and he grasped at Tony's body, hoping that if he held onto him hard enough, he would be okay.

"Please, I don't want to go. I don't want to go." he repeated it again and again, wishing that his words would stop the inevitable. He didn't want to go without saying goodbye.

His back hit the floor as Tony laid him down, eyes unfocused as he stared up at the orange sky, filled with floating debris and clouds of dust and gas. For a moment, all that he could think about was the first time he'd met Tony and the rest of the Avengers. Suited up in their armour with their shields, guns and Stark tech, they'd all looked invincible. But Tony had returned home, bruised, betrayed and literally broken. He wasn't invincible and he didn't always have the answers, he didn't always succeed.

In that moment, he accepted that Tony couldn't always save the day. He was just as human as everyone else.

Which meant he was going to die.

He glanced back at Tony and saw something in his eyes - grief, anger, guilt. Guilt at not being able to save him. For not being able to save everyone. Peter could feel the last of his strength leave him, the pain taking over his entire body as he felt his cells being taken apart one by one. He wanted Tony to know that he didn't blame him and that it wasn't his fault. Nobody was strong enough to take on Thanos. Peter wasn't strong enough to pull the gauntlet from his hand.

So with one last push, he forced a whisper between his lips,

"I'm sorry." _I wasn't strong enough_.

Then, he turned to dust.

* * *

Peter woke up. The suffocating warmth of bedcovers surrounded him and he wrestled with them until they fell onto the floor. The floor that had his haphazardly strewn clothing from days he'd had to quickly change into his suit and piles of unbalanced comic books he'd collected over the years.

Peter looked up.

The wall had his achievements; first places in science and mathematics competitions, decathlon certificates and a photo of him as a child, proudly holding a white belt of a martial art he'd given up only a week later.

His heart slammed against his ribcage again and again while his brain gradually digested the situation. It was his room, there was no doubt in his mind. But he'd just died. On that planet. Titan. He'd felt it as his hands crumbled and his body disintegrated into nothing. It had hurt, the pain was tangible, and yet he was here, in his room, the smell of burnt food wafting in from the kitchen. Body intact.

He looked at his hands, the metal armour that should've encased them replaced by soft yet slightly calloused skin. His gaze shifted back towards the room, attempting to find any discrepancy in what he could only assume to be an illusion. However, every detail, from the cheap chess set he owned to the academic decathlon poster above his desk, remained identical to what he remembered of his room.

A hysterical giggle passed his lips as he thought, _what the hell?._ His room was the last place he'd imagined he would end up after death.

The scent of burning became even more prominent and Peter realised that if this were the afterlife and that was Aunt May cooking, then she must've died too.

His breath caught in his throat.

_No, no, Aunt May is fine. It's gotta be someone else._

Still, he called out to her, hesitantly, "A- Aunt May?"

He received no answer. He shouted to her again.

"Aunt May? A-are you there?"

Again, he received no response. The bed creaked underneath him as he pushed himself from it and rushed towards the closed door of his room. He reached towards the door knob, gripped it tightly as he inhaled. Maybe he hadn't died after all, maybe the battle had been a nightmare, an unrealistically realistic but nonetheless fictional nightmare.

However, an unsettling thought arose in his mind. Maybe he was really dead and this was really the afterlife. And if he were dead, did that mean he would see his parents and uncle, sat on the other side of the door, ready to introduce him to death? Or would he see his Aunt, burning their breakfast, giving him a small smile as he got ready for school, the entire battle having been a figment of his imagination?

Was he dead or was he alive?

A few moments passed, he exhaled. He had to know. On the count of three, he told himself. On the count of three, he'd open the door.

 _One_...

He grit his teeth, twisting the handle.

 _Two_...

He squeezed his eyes closed. Held his breath.

 _Three_.

He pulled it open.

His Aunt wasn't there. Nor were his parents, his uncle, his home. Instead, he found an unrecognizable space, flooded with ankle-deep water, its sky painted an orange hue. It was a vast, seemingly endless, world. Glimmers of light flashed behind shapeless clouds, reflecting on the still water surrounding him.

For a few seconds, he could only stare at the world he found himself in, at its beauty, and he found himself appreciating the calm that washed over him at the sight of it. However, he then recognised a small structure to his left. It was a playground.

It was the same playground he remembered his parents taking him to as a child. One of the few memories he still had left with them. It contained a dull red slide with chipped paintwork and deep dents in its sides, a swingset that had one deteriorating seat whilst the other was nowhere to be seen, only dark brown chains of rust hung from the bar above and a small climbing wall covered in the mud from dirty shoes.

Two silhouetted figures stood there too, as if waiting for him to make his way over. Their hands were entwined and their features hidden but they emanated a welcoming aura that Peter couldn't help but to be drawn towards. He dipped his feet into the water and began to wade his way towards them. It was cold and uncomfortable but he pushed through, wanting to see the faces of the hidden shadows.

An almost unsettling silence descended, interuppted only by sloshing as he dragged his feet to the playground. The silhouettes watched him as he did so.

Only a few metres away, he stared at the faces of the figures and tried to discern who or what they were. The smaller of the two was a young woman with auburn hair cut into a bob, wide eyes colored like the sun and a beautiful smile that he immediately found himself returning. The other was a man, who had dark brown hair filled with patches of grey and deep brown eyes, he too smiled kindly at Peter.

Despite having last seen them as a child, his mother's eyes and his father's smile immediately sparked recognition in him.

 _Mom!_ he tried to call out, but no sound came from him.

He tried again, shouting for his father this time. Still, all he heard was the rippling of water and silence. Tears formed in his mother's eyes and he realised that she wanted to say something. But, like him, she seemed unable to make a sound.

He took his final steps forward, reaching out towards them, to do what, he didn't know; whether it was hug them or touch them to ensure that they were real. He could feel warmth radiating from his mother for a few seconds as his hand pressed against her own. He felt like a child again, wanting to hold hands with her just to know that someone else was there with him.

Peter wanted to speak to them, tell them about everything he'd done since they'd left. About his school and friends, his Aunt and what happened to his uncle, about Spider-man and Vulture and Thanos and the Avengers. But he couldn't, no matter how hard he tried, despite thinking he'd almost explode with everything he'd wanted to say, something wouldn't let him.

Instead, he wrapped his arms around the both of them, pulling them close into a hug he was scared would be their last.

 _I've missed you so much,_ he'd wanted to say.

Instead, he squeezed them tighter, hoped that they would understand his wordless gesture. They did the same to him.

Red-faced and teary-eyed, Peter relaxed into the embrace and let his problems fade from his mind. His parents were here, everything was okay. Everything was going to be okay.

* * *

Everything was black.

Everything was cold. There was nothing in front of him nor behind. Like an abyss, it seemed to be an endless chasm of emptiness. One moment he was with his parents and the next he found himself alone.

Direction and height was impossible to determine, every way he looked was the same; there wasn't a floor nor a ceiling, in his eyes up and down were the same. Gravity didn't matter either. He just floated seamlessly, no resistance pulling him, nothing pushing him towards any place or location. He didn't even have thoughts or feelings to dwell on or think about. He just _was._

And for a time he didn't care to calculate, he stayed like this. Effortlessly existing, without concern. It could've been days, months, even years. Maybe seconds. Until, in one moment that should've been the same as those previous, a pinprick of light, barely perceptible yet blatantly present within the darkness, glimmered, grew and soon engulfed the abyss in its entirety.

The pain of dying, the grief and the unmistakable smell of a new car pushed to the forefront of his mind. Everything came back to him within a matter of seconds. Almost overwhelmed him from the abruptness with which they returned.

He started to think and feel once again. He could feel the pressure of cold air pushing against him, whipping around his body, making him shake violently. He could hear the sound of the wind whistle past his ears and smelt the metallic scent of his new suit. And as he opened his eyes, he could see the solid, firm ground beneath him inch closer and closer with every second.

His mouth opened in a silent scream and his heart seized, like a hand was squeezing the organ with all its strength. He may have been Spider-Man but falling from such a height, which he predicted to be taller than most buildings in New York, was _terrifying._

His body was twisting and turning, uncontrolled and wild as he barrelled through the air. The world around him was a blur of blues and greens, indistinguishable to his disoriented vision. Had he more time, he would've tried to focus and figure out where he was.

But with the ground approaching, bringing the promise of broken bones and pain, he ignored everything but his situation.

He spread his arms and legs in hopes of slowing his descent as much as possible and tried making the suits parachute deploy. However, Peter quickly realised that somehow the neural-reactive interface of his suit was malfunctioning. And soon he was out of time.

Now only 25 metres from the ground, he knew he'd be hitting the earth at any second. With his last moments, he lifted his arms up to his head in an attempt to protect it from the impact. The crunching of broken branches as his body pushed through the trees told him how soon the pain would come.

A thud. His back slammed against the dirt and his head whipped back and forth with such force that he could've sworn his neck had snapped. Winded, he gasped for oxygen but couldn't feel any enter his lungs. His body immediately began to ache, the pain centered around his head and back.

He tried to move but only felt his leg twitch minutely. A wheezing cough forced itself from his mouth, the pressure against his lungs felt like a clamp, slowing tightening but never giving him any release - for a few seconds, he thought his lungs had collapsed, maybe punctured by a broken rib. But he forced himself to take in slow, drawn-out breaths despite his body's protests and gradually his breathing began to even out. He knew what a broken rib felt like and this was not that.

He laid there for a few minutes, working his way through the pain and trying not to jostle himself too much. He'd landed in the middle of a forest. Beneath him, moss and fallen leaves cushioned his aching body, shielding his back from the cold dirt. The arms of trees reached out above him with its roots woven into the ground beneath. 

Peter's head began to pound and he could feel his stomach squeezing as if getting ready to push its contents up through his throat. His ears were ringing loudly too as though someone had shoved crickets into his ear. Vision blurring, Peter found that suddenly he couldn't focus, different thoughts, primarily irrelevant, unhelpful one's invading his mind.

_I wonder if actual spiders could survive if they fell from this height._

He shook his head and tried to concentrate again, tried to ignore the random thoughts that made their way to the forefront of his mind. But still, his brain couldn't help but concentrate on the wrong things.

God, he couldn't think.

In the mess of thoughts rushing through Peter's brain, one clear and calculative statement made its way through.

_I've got a concussion._

Peter shut his eyes and tried to tune out the sounds of distant birds singing, his heartbeat drumming in his ears and the rustling of leaves being swept around by gusts of wind. He knew enough about concussions to avoid bright light and sounds but with his enhanced senses it was even more important to shut it all out. He easily became overwhelmed by everything when he suffered from concussions.

The one drawback of having superhuman abilities he supposed.

Instead of looking around, he decided to check himself for injuries. He'd been unable to do anything; whether it was from shock or actual damage to his spine or head he was unsure. Though he had his predictions.

Carefully, whilst still in the position he'd fallen in, Peter once again tried to move. First, he shook his foot and when it complied he moved to his leg and continued upwards. In spite of the situation being less than funny, he huffed at himself, realising how stupid he must've looked.

Luckily, he'd managed to move all his limbs and his head so spinal injury was unlikely. Not that he'd expected one, his body was much more durable than any humans and he'd taken quite a few tumbles from buildings during his time as spiderman. Though, he admitted, this fall was a _lot_ higher than any he'd experienced before.

Confident that it was safe to start moving around, Peter worked his way out of his position and then leaned against a nearby tree to help him stand. The world danced in front of his eyes for a few moments and he felt himself wobble in place. He plopped back down onto the floor and pushed his back up against the tree, sighing. He'd have to wait a bit before starting to move.

Fortunately, he wouldn't be waiting too long as, while he suffered from the effects of a concussion more than most people, he also recovered from them a lot faster. So all he had to do was wait for half an hour at most before he was fit to move efficiently.

Meanwhile, he decided to inspect his suit. He knew Tony would've created his armour to be EMP-proof; if the Iron Man suit malfunctioned during a fight, it was basically a death sentence. He was entirely human after all. So, Peter assumed that the same tech would be installed in the iron-spider suit which begged the question: why had his suit stopped working?.

Despite trying multiple times, he still seemed unable to deploy any of the suit's features that required electricity - there was no Karen, no automatic parachute or spider legs and it didn't respond to any mental input like it used to. Meaning he couldn't take the suit off either. He _really_ hoped that Tony had installed a manual button or switch that would let him remove it. But somehow he doubted it, Tony was a lot of things and arrogant was definitely one of them (though Peter reasoned that he had every right to be, he was one of the smartest people in the world after all).

Therefore, Peter knew that Tony never would've given him the suit if he thought it'd shut down in the middle of a fight. He had confidence in his creations. So, no button.

Peter wracked his brain for a solution, he could try to get help but that would probably mean revealing his identity and he couldn't afford to do that even if it meant he had to stay in his suit longer. The only person he could rely on that was smart enough and who knew his identity was Tony but he was millions of kilometers away. How had he even ended up back on earth anyways?

Either way, if no one else could help him, he'd have to help himself.

Peter's mind drifted back to what he remembered of Tony's suits, he'd almost religiously followed the older man when he was just a normal kid as he'd idolised him for his intelligence and obviously, because he was Iron Man. He would study and theorise about the suits for days on end and when he was approached by the man himself, his enthusiasm only grew. So it was safe to say he knew a fair bit about his tech.

He knew that the Iron Man suits were powered by arc reactors so if his own suit used them too (and he really hoped it did) then a short boost, similar to jump-starting a car, would be enough to make them function again. All he had to do was find the arc reactor(s), find a power source, create a-

The rustling of leaves in the distance interrupted his thoughts. He stayed silent for a moment, focusing on the sounds of the forest despite them making his head ache. Crunching, thudding, shuffling. He wasn't alone in the forest anymore.

Despite his dizziness, he stood up slowly, making no noise that could alert his guests, and began to climb the tree he'd been resting on. It offered him little camouflage and there was no doubt that the moment one of the intruders looked up they'd see Peter skulking in the trees. But it was better than nothing. 

And really, it was pretty embarrassing to be scurrying away from potential danger instead of facing it but he knew it was a risk to remain in plain sight and at least he'd have the element of surprise if a fight were to take place... even if he didn't have full co-ordination of his limbs.

He heard the voices of three men

"Reckon it was 'round here." said a voice with a gravelly tone, he sounded middle-aged and he had a very distinct southern accent.

"Why we even checkin', he's dead and gone after falling from all the way up there." Another man, younger, in his late teens or early twenties, also had the same southern tinge to his voice.

"Still gotta check it out, the governors gon' be on our asses if he finds out we jus' ignored it." the last voice had a thick New York accent.

Despite only three men speaking, Peter could hear the faint tread of two more pairs of feet, much less careful than the first three. Like they were shuffling and intentionally dragging their feet through the dirt and leaves.

"I got em'." The middle-aged man grunted.

He heard squelching sounds followed by two thuds. The faint shuffling stopped whilst the more co-ordinated movement continued in his direction.

"These freaks are gettin' uglier and uglier every damn day."

The three men entered from behind a thick gathering of trees. All of them had guns in their hands; military-grade, automatics. They walked one after the other, each wearing a similar combination of combat boots, short-sleeved t-shirts and cargo trousers.

He glanced briefly at their belts, each of them had a melee weapon tucked away in sheaths. Two knives and something longer: a machete. He could immediately tell that there was something up with the men. It wasn't just the huge guns and knives but the way they held themselves; while casual they also looked combat-ready and capable. Something about their quick eyes searching the area for danger that contrasted with their lazy gait that seemed uncaring.

They were ready for trouble and they would fight tooth and nail should they encounter any. Peter could tell, he'd seen those types as Spider-Man, they were the type who'd do just about anything to stay out of jail. And that, combined with their automatic guns and sharp machetes plus his malfunctioning suit and debilitating concussion was very dangerous.

Under any other circumstance, he'd easily take on three armed men. He could do it in his sleep. Even in this situation, he'd probably be fine but he wasn't sure he wanted to risk it. If his suit somehow retracted in the middle of a fight due to some unknown mechanism and they managed to shoot him, he'd be in a difficult situation; he had no idea where he was nor any idea of how far away help might be. Add the three hostile men who would still be shooting at him... No, he couldn't risk it.

But he also really didn't want to leave three men with guns walking around the forest. 

Peter sighed. He couldn't just leave them, there was no way of knowing what they'd do. Plus, his chances of survival were much higher than that of anybody else who might encounter them; handing them into the police while he could would prevent innocent people getting hurt. So, from his tree, he shouted down to the men,

"Hey guys!" without thinking.

That was obviously the wrong thing to do because the moment his voice reached the men, the youngest of the trio squeezed the trigger and sent a full magazine of bullets hurtling towards Peter.

_Crap, I forgot about the whole 'element of surprise' thing._

He managed to dodge most of them and the ones he missed, because give him a break he'd just died and then fell out of the sky, ricocheted from his metal suit.

"That could've hurt dude. You guys should really teach that kid to be more careful around guns."

They stood frozen, startled by the armoured man's apparent immunity to bullets. But then, a shiver running along his spine told him that the other men were getting ready to shoot so Peter quickly hid behind the tree trunk. He may be bulletproof in his suit but he didn't want to test its limits. And he was getting dizzy so movement and dodging the attacks was not in his best interest.

He glanced around the tree and saw that the eldest man had quickly unsheathed his knife and was striking at the air as if to scare Peter away.

"Uh- Hey, sir... Put the knife away, you could get hurt." Peter said, poking his hands out from behind the tree to placate the man. Not one of his best ideas. Steel whistled about his arm and hand, not once hitting their target but still too close for comfort.

"Really guys- we don't need to fight, just put down the weapons. No need for anyone to get hurt."

The gunfire stopped abruptly so Peter peeked out from behind the tree and he came face to face with the New-Yorker, carrying a 16 inch machete. He hadn't realised how close he'd gotten... a result of his concussion he hoped. 

The machete-wielder burst forward aiming an attack at his neck. He swung, it's blade reaching Peter in less than a second. A metallic clang rang out through the forest as metal met metal. The young superheros hand gripped the attackers wrist, stopping him in place. His suit protected him from the sharp edge.

Abruptly, Peter pulled down on the mans arm, bringing him face to face with his metal-covered knee which he pushed into the nose of his attacker. He heard a crunch. Peter then picked up the machete and threw it at the nearest tree. It plunged deep into the bark, causing it to splinter and crack. Then, he looked back towards the man on the ground.

"My bad, I didn't mean to hit so hard."

The man ignored him in favour of holding his nose that was gushing with blood, it covered the lower half of his face and his teeth. He scrambled back towards the other men on his free hand and knees.

"Hey guys, I'm sure you really don't wanna go to jail but I need to get going and well- you're kind of using up at lot of my time right now."

Instead of a reply, the eldest man lifted what seemed to be a radio to his face and started shouting orders to the unfortunate recipient of his 'call'.

"We need people, North of Woodbury!"

Some static and then the voice of a woman,

"How many do you need? I have ten people but-"

"Just send 'em all!"

Peter winced, it sounded like these three men were, in fact, a lot more than just three men. Taking out only a few of them if a whole community existed was... useless. Maybe if he'd had time to interrogate them and find out information it would be worth it but by the sound of things, it wouldn't be just the three of them soon. He'd wasted too much time talking, it was a habit of his. 

In unison, the men began to fire their weapons towards Peter who hid behind his tree whilst they gradually backed away. Peter just sighed and accepted that he'd have to let them go. There was no way he'd be able to take on more than ten people.

He stayed hidden until the men stopped shooting and ran off into the forest. Until he could no longer hear their harsh breathing and heavy feet. He slumped against the bark and berated himself for his stupidity. If he had just taken them down without trying to talk to them they wouldn't have called for back-up and he would've stopped three criminals from walking the streets.

But then again, had he taken them out the moment he'd seen them, he probably wouldn't have heard the name 'Woodbury'. 

And he had an inkling that whatever 'Woodbury' was, it was way more dangerous than the people he'd encountered. He needed to find out what it was and what they were up to. 

After fixing his suit, of course.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a head up, this chapter may have some mistakes as I'm finishing it at 5am. 
> 
> I'm genuinely so thankful that people have read this. I love reading the comments, they're literally what encouraged me to keep writing.
> 
> It has been four months since I last uploaded. Honestly I have no excuse, I just genuinely underestimated the amount of planning and work that went into writing. Hopefully this time the next chapter will be out much much quicker.
> 
> Thank you so much, I hope u enjoy reading) 
> 
> (also I completely rewrote chapter 1 so I highly suggest Re-reading it if u haven't yet) 
> 
> TW for this chapter // Graphic imagery, gore, suicide

For a while longer he sat against his makeshift seat, its scratching and rough bark digging uncomfortably into his metal-encased body. The pieces of wood jut out where bullets had previously ripped through but not quite pierced their target. He no longer felt the energy or strength that the adrenaline of falling and fighting had given him, leaving him exhausted but clear minded; he was able to concentrate on his surroundings so he only then recognised how screwed he would've been were his suit not bullet-proof. Those men had continued shooting until his shield had been reduced to mere splinters. He should've been dead or at the very least severely injured.

Fortunately, however, his concussion had subsided during the time he'd taken to rest; he'd closed his eyes and tried to block out his senses and the sensations he felt for ten minutes. And while he did manage to silence the sounds of the forest, a ringing still echoed in his ears that didn't seem to abate. But he could say that now his brain was functioning a lot more efficiently than it had been and so he started to consider his situation.

He had no idea where he was, his suit was basically glued to him, he was exhausted, injured, clueless and heavily armed men were coming to finish him off. Even with those circumstances, his brain had decided that he could also manage to take down the (assumed) criminal organisation that had at least fifteen members. Peter scoffed.

It reminded him of vulture and the weapons dealers he'd supplied. Peter had thought at that time that he was ready. He could take them easily; he was Spider-Man, he'd fought the Avengers, he had superpowers for christ's sake. A boat cut in half later and he recognised how wrong he was. Hundreds of people could've died if not for Tony and those deaths would've been on him. And while he did eventually manage to face Vulture and stop him, it didn't change the fact that people could've been hurt. That was because he was unprepared. He'd jumped in without a solid plan or any help and hurt people as a result.

So, Peter decided that 'Woodbury' would have to wait until he was ready. He'd get some help; the authorities or even another avenger. Then he'd deal with it. But for now, he had to find out where he was and how to get home. The smartest plan would be to head the opposite direction of those who may or may not be pursuing him but he also had no idea of his location and could be walking for miles through the forest without finding anything but trees and dirt. At least he knew that in following his attackers there was a definite chance he'd eventually stumble upon a town. Even if it was crawling with criminals.

South then, he decided and if he did end up encountering someone, their footsteps would alert him to their presence, giving him enough time to hide or run before they spotted him. Now with a plan, he pushed himself from the ground and began to amble his way through the forest, trodding on leaves that crunched beneath his foot.

He'd only moved a few metres when he noticed a hand hidden amongst the shrubbery in front of him. The body to which it was attached wasn't visible as a tree stood in its way, shielding the person from his vision. The hand in question lay limp as though it belonged to an unmoving doll, it's porcelain skin was mostly unmarred, the only sign of imperfection being the specs of reddish-brown staining its palm.

Peter stepped closer cautiously. He hadn't thought that anyone else was there, he hadn't seen nor heard anything in the last few minutes that might've suggested the presence of someone other than himself. Surely, he would've heard their breathing or movement yet he'd heard nothing besides the sounds of the forest and the ringing in his ears. Suddenly, he remembered the shuffling that had accompanied the assured footsteps of the three men he'd encountered. Maybe the shuffling he'd heard belonged to the body that now lay lifeless. Lifeless... why weren't they moving... breathing... doing _anything_?

"E-excuse me." Peter called out whilst continuing to move closer and closer to the body.

What if they were dead? But... they were alive less than an hour ago, he'd heard them shuffle about... did that mean those men had done this? Killed this person? While he'd just waited in the trees, hesitant to do anything in fears of getting hurt? Did he just let three murderers get away? Because he was scared?

Peter wrapped his arms across his chest and tried to suppress the shivers that wracked his body. With every step he took towards the hand, his heart began to crash harder and harder against his ribcage, almost so much so that he could feel each muscle pulsate with every beat. Like a mantra, he repeated the words 'please be okay' in his mind in attempts to reassure himself despite the damning evidence lay out in front of him.

Finally, he reached the body. He inhaled sharply as he took in what he now realised was a young woman; she was extremely small and emaciated, each of her ribs could be counted and her hip bones jutted out viciously from just above her trousers. Her skin was extremely pallid with darker splotches scattered throughout her face and neck; a gruesome painting created by death. The blonde hair that hung from her skull was matted and discoloured; blood and grime dyeing it crimson. She wore a black cardigan with a cropped t-shirt.

He had to swallow against the bile that threatened to burst from his throat as he took in the cavity that was her face. A crater filled with congealed blood, brain matter and pieces of bone replaced what should've been her forehead and left cheek. Her cloudy, right eye bulged from its socket, threatening to fall at any moment. Peter felt his breath come short and his heart seize. He couldn't imagine how much the woman must've suffered before she was killed. Peter could hardly hold himself back from falling beside her and shaking the girl to somehow force life back into her.

Peter took in a shaky breath before kneeling down next to her and tentatively reached out to hold her hand with his own. If he could feel it through his suit, he knew it would be cold. With the other, he wrestled the girl away from her cardigan and then covered her face with it. He hoped that at least this would protect the rest of her face from animals before he returned with the police. Tears pooled in his eyes and soaked the inside of his mask as his grip on the small hand tightened. It was only half the size of his own.

"I'm sorry." he whispered to her, before he got up and set off south, his mind replaying images of the men's faces and the tiny, delicate hand that had been wrapped in his own.

* * *

It was deathly silent and the streets were bare. The desolate town was, as far as he could tell, unoccupied; the only signs of life being the heaps of trash strewn along the pavements and the abandoned cars that lined the parking lot of a small bar, 'Jude's Tavern'.

It looked like a stereotypical town he might've seen in movies from the 90s. Each building had a similar structure: three stories at the most, built with brick and each had numerous windows that sat side by side and often run along the entirety of the building's front. Most were for commercial use, he could tell from the signs that hung above their doors. They were huddled close together, attached in most cases, leaving no room for alleyways between. The town was also extremely unkempt, grass and weeds grew through cracks in the road, the paintwork on most of the signs was chipped and dull and many tiles from roofs had either fallen or cracked.

The town was the complete antithesis of Queens. Where Queens was rowdy and often full of life, the place he found himself in was eerie. Unwelcoming. As he walked down the street, his gaze flickered from window to window, half expecting to see something or someone gazing at him with a glare that screamed, 'Get out'.

He also searched for any restaurants or small grocery stores. It'd been a while since he'd last eaten and with his accelerated metabolism he was hungry and seriously low on energy. Even if it were a bag of chips, he figured it was better than nothing. Though he'd first have to find out how to make his suit retract.

Eventually, about half-way down the street, he spotted a small café with outdoor seating and a French word engraved into its windows. He pressed his face close to the glass and peered into the room. It was a wreck; tables were overturned, paintings ripped from the walls, cutlery and rotting food covered the floor. The most disturbing feature, however, was the dried blood splattered all over the café; on the counters, the ground, the chairs, even the ceiling- it was _everywhere_.

"What the hell?" Peter whispered, stumbling backwards.

It looked like a massacre had taken place. Peter quickly staggered away and started down the street, his pace picking up every second until he was running, as he passed by the buildings he caught a glimpse of what was inside. Each and every one of them were in a similar state; a mess of furniture and blood. His breathing began to quicken and he felt a deep pit dig it's way into his stomach. What the fuck happened here?

At the end of the street, he spotted a house. The only place that seemed untouched by the carnage, it appeared much less dilapidated than the rest of the buildings like someone had worked to maintain it. There was a car parked in front of it. Mostly clean except for the still wet mud and sludge stuck to the tires. Someone must've driven it recently. That meant someone was alive and could tell him what was going on. But what kind of person would want to live in this place?

He came to a halt outside of the door and raised a hand as if to knock. He held it in place just a few inches away. If someone was living here, they couldn't be a good person, nobody would live here voluntarily. What if they were the people he'd met? Biting the inside of his cheek, he tasted the blood that filled his mouth. What if they were crazy? What if the occupants were the ones who'd done this?

Peter steeled himself. He would knock but if he heard multiple footsteps, he'd leave. He needed to find out where he was and this was his best bet. He rapped on the door... once, twice... then, he waited. For a moment, he heard nothing but the wind whistle in his ears and the scuttering of rats finding meals in the trash but shortly after he heard faint thudding. It wasn't the sound of feet hitting the floor. It was indistinguishable. Peter's brow furrowed as he tried to listen closer. Still, he had no idea what the sound might be.

He considered leaving; the town was dangerous and it might be even more so inside the house. There could be someone waiting for him to enter, gun or knife at the ready, they'd do the same thing to him that they did to the people that lived here. Slaughtered them in cold blood, viciously and savagely. What else could've filled each of those buildings with so much blood?

But where else could he go? He couldn't travel blindly, he needed a set location, preferably somewhere close that had the technology he needed to fix his suit. He didn't know what leaving the town with no information might mean for him. Starvation, dehydration, he honestly never would've expected to die in such a way but if he started walking without proper direction he may end up in the middle of nowhere with no food, water-- nothing. He could actually die and something about that thought made him grip the door handle and push it open. He had a much better chance of fighting an insane guy who had the strength and skill to kill an entire town than preventing his own body from shutting down.

Inside, apart from the slithers of moonlight creeping in through the windows and front door, there was complete darkness. He found himself in a long hallway, numerous doors along each wall, all of them closed. He couldn't see much, he couldn't tell how long the hall was nor how many doors there were in total. He also couldn't tell whether there was someone hiding in the shadows. He did however see on the walls closest to him two words carved deeply into the wood.

'FIND HER'

He traced the words with his fingers. The engraving was messily written; the knife strokes carried on too long and the letters weren't aligned. Somehow he could almost feel the despair it's creator must've felt, radiating from it.

Peter stepped forward, the floorboards creaked beneath his foot. He slowly walked down, his body tense and fists curled. Again and again, he saw the same phrase. FIND HER. FIND HER. FIND HER. He reached the first door. He didn't hear anything inside. Pushing it open, he grimaced as he took in the state of the room. It was filled with piles upon piles of empty cans and water bottles. No people. Once more, he saw the same words, this time painted along the walls. FIND HER. Peter turned and left, closing the door behind him as quietly as possible.

Back in the hall, he crept further into the darkness. The house continued to scream at him silently with their pleas and requests. Gradually, the carvings became more and more violent. Deeper and deeper, messier and messier until they became illegible. Just scratches in the wall, filled with emotions yet lacking any meaning. Eventually, he came upon another door. Entering the room, he noticed it lacked the same 'graffiti' that the rest of the house held.

It was a bedroom, painted blue and white. A king-sized bed with cream sheets sat at its centre and beside it were two nightstands with lamps on top. It didn't seem like the same house. This place was serene, untouched by the madness that plagued the rest of the town. He could almost forget about the scenes of murder just next door. Peter spotted a picture frame sitting on a chest of drawers and moved closer to get a better look. In the photo, two people smiled happily at the camera. A man and a woman. They both appeared young and energetic. Behind them, a mountain range lined the sky, it's peaks coated in white. The picture must've been taken during a hiking trip. And from the arm wrapped lovingly around the shoulder of the woman, Peter guessed that they were together. Maybe she was the one that they wanted to find.

Just as he was about to put the photo back down, a ring that was taped to the back of it, fell onto the surface of the drawers. A loud clang resounded through the room. For a moment, Peter stood frozen. His eyes glanced back at the door that was still wide open. He waited, staring at the pitch black entrance. What if someone had heard it?

Seconds passed. Nothing. He almost convinced himself that he'd be alright. Then, a dull thudding. It came from down the hall. Peter crept to the entrance and leaned around the frame to peer into the darkness. He couldn't see anything. Silently, he made his way towards the sound. He passed a door. A thud. And another door. Another thud. It came from deeper within the house. Peter's skin crawled; the walls seemed as if they were getting narrower and narrower until eventually he'd be crushed between the two surfaces. It began to feel suffocating... claustrophobic. Thud. He found a kitchen. The dull thudding was now accompanied by the rattling of chains and the animalistic growling of a man that he could not yet see.

In front of him was a fridge, stove, counters, sink, microwave, coffee machine. But around the corner, in what must've been the dining area, was the man in the photo. Dangling from the ceiling light, chain wrapped around his neck, legs thrashing and hitting the edge of the table which was just out of his reach. The man was dying; his spine almost snapped, his throat nearly crushed.

Peter gasped as he saw him and quickly ran over, jumping onto the table to break the ceiling light that the chain was hanging from. He grabbed the piece of metal and tugged as hard as he could, snapping it easily. With a crash, the man hit the floor, his face smacking the laminate with a bang. Peter knelt down beside him and tried to work the chain from around his neck. The man's chest didn't move.

"Can you hear me?" Peter said whilst shaking him. He pressed his fingers against the man's wrist. There was no pulse.

"Oh God- Please, wake up-" Peter whispered, "What do I do? Shit!"

He tried to recall what he was taught in school during first aid classes. If someone isn't breathing or if they don't have a heartbeat... You have to do chest compressions until help arrives. He needed to call for help. Scrambling to his feet, he ran back into the kitchen and searched the counter-tops. In the corner, he spotted a white corded phone. He picked it up, held it to his ear and pressed 9-1-1. But no sound came from it, not even the beeping of a call that wouldn't go through or the phone lady's voice. Nothing but complete silence. He slammed the phone down and picked it back up in futile hopes that maybe it'd work that time. Still, silence rang out through it's speakers.

"What do I do? What the hell do I do? CPR- just do CPR. It'll be fine, Peter."

He spun around and began heading back to the dining room, hands shaking viciously as he mentally prepared himself for what he had to do. CPR. He'd never done it before except on a fake dummy but that was before he had his strength. What if he pressed too hard? What if he ended up killing him instead? Breaking the man's ribs and squashing his heart rather than giving it life. It was too easy for someone like him to do something like that. Kill a man.

He reached the dining room, took a deep breath, looked down. A smear of blood replaced what was once a body. Peter audibly cursed.

"Where the hell-"

Peter began looking around for where the man might've gone. He saw nothing, the darkness was overwhelming and the room too large to see into its space. However, his ears picked up soft breathing intertwined with an occasional groan far to the right of him. The man couldn't see him either.

"Are you OK?" Peter said, wanting to warn the man before he abruptly walked up to him.

The man let out a low, rumbling growl and Peter heard footsteps quickly shuffle in his direction. A silent shiver coursing through his body told him that the man wasn't running to him with plans of answering his question. Peter subconsciously shifted to stand on the balls of his feet and lifted his arms up to his chest. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He turned just in time to see a black blur barrel into him with enough force that he stumbled back into the table. The man's hands were pushing against his shoulders and his face came close to his neck. Peter heard a clacking noise and realised that he was trying to bite him.

"I'm not here to hurt you!" Peter shouted, pushing him away.

The man only snarled back at him. A guttural, disgusting noise. He charged at him again but Peter easily side-stepped him and kicked the back of his leg. His knee buckled sending him into the ground. The man showed no sign of pain and quickly went for him.

"I'm just trying to help you!. I'm not a thief or anything." he said, avoiding each of his attacks.

The man didn't seem to tire either. He just continued attacking even after being shoved away every single time. All he seemed concerned about was biting him; it didn't matter how many times he had to try, he just kept going. Peter didn't think he'd seen someone with such unadulterated aggressiveness in all his time as Spider-Man. Not even the meanest of criminals seemed to want to hurt him as much as this man did. There was something wrong with him.

The man's endless barrage of attacks continued for a few minutes and Peter grimaced as he realised what he'd have to do. The man wasn't stopping no matter how many times Peter tried to talk him down and the way he ended up throwing himself against the floor was undoubtedly further injuring him. He decided he'd have to restrain him. Peter looked around for something he could tie his hands together with; rope or a cord but he couldn't find anything. Instead, Peter grabbed the chain that was still wrapped around the man's neck and tied it to the leg of the table, it was a struggle (the man wouldn't stop interrupting him) but eventually he managed to do it. He winced as he saw it dig into the skin of his neck but was satisfied that it wouldn't hurt him any further. He didn't want to do it, he definitely didn't like doing it but there was no way he could talk to the guy if he kept pouncing on him. Peter slid onto the table an arms length away from the man. He was struggling with his restraints and clacking his teeth at Peter.

What should he ask him? Peter doubted he'd even respond in the state that he was. His only interest was in hurting Peter, he could see it in the man's eyes, his crazed hysteria made the orbs wobble, occasionally focusing in on a part of Peter before unfocusing again.

"I'm sorry. About the chain." he said, fiddling with his hands and head down as if waiting for the reprimands of a teacher.

The man snarled. Peter gulped.

"Do- do you like eating people or something? Because I've fought a lot of bad guys and only like... two have tried to bite me."

Hands slashed at the air beside him, ready to rip into anything they encountered. Peter shuffled away slightly and tensed. Humor was his comfort in situations like these but it didn't seem like the other was fond of it.

"OK, you don't talk, I got it. Maybe you can blink once for yes, twice for no."

The others eyes stayed wide open. Peter scratched the back of his neck.

"Nevermind.. Do you need anything-" Peter faintly wondered whether it would matter if he called him 'Sir', if it'd calm him down, "- I can't let you go unless you promise not to hurt me or yourself. I can get you some food or a drink, if you have any left..."

He clearly wasn't listening. It was like talking to a wall. A dangerous wall. With teeth. But a wall nonetheless. Peter grimaced, the man freaked him out. He was a shell. He didn't seem to have thoughts or feelings or the ability to feel pain. But his outward appearance was entirely ordinary. Human. Everything else about him, however, seemed to contradict that. Maybe, he'd lost his mind living here. Peter would've, surrounded by the destruction and death that must've occurred. Maybe he'd even caused it. In the photo he'd seen of him, he appeared 'normal', the 'not trying to take a chunk out of Peter' kind of normal, it was hard to match that smiling man to this murderous one. Then again, Toomes was a father but also a criminal so who knew if this man was also hiding his true self behind a facade.

Peter pushed himself from the table and began to look around. He needed to know where he was. Avoiding the grabbing arms, he moved to the kitchen and inspected the fridge door where magnets held pieces of paper onto the metal. Most were lists of chores or items, some were pictures of the man and the woman together, others were photographs of a larger group; perhaps their families. On the right hand side, however, there was a calendar. Written on it with bold, red lettering, the year: 2010. Peter's eyes widened minisculely. The last he remembered, it was 2018.

He glanced back at the man, hardly visible in the darkness, it wasn't completely unimaginable that he hadn't updated it in eight years. Maybe he was fond of the pictures in this particular one. All the images of cute puppies. Sure, that had to be it. He heard the clacking of teeth.

Besides the calendar, there wasn't much of anything helpful. A few magnets here and there; the city name 'Atlanta' written on the front of a peach was one and a baby pink magnet painted with roses was another. He moved to the drawers, rustling through them in hopes of finding an address or a working phone. He just found cutlery, plates, all things typical of a kitchen. It wasn't until he came across a slightly open drawer that he discovered something useful. A map.

He quickly took it out, hands fumbling slightly and flattened it against the counter. He could hardly make out the blue, white and red lines running along the paper, it was enveloped in darkness much like everything else. He couldn't see a red dot or scribbled mark that could tell him of his location, however, in the corner, he could see the letters GA. Georgia. The state of Georgia. Hundreds of miles away from New York. Peter inhaled sharply.

If he was in Georgia, he was much further than he thought he'd be. Maybe he was too hopeful in thinking that he'd land not far from where he'd left that morning, near to New York at least. He should probably consider himself lucky that he was in the US, he could've ended up in Europe or Asia or some unknown planet, millions of miles away from Earth.

He picked up the map and walked back to the man. He was docile for a moment before he heard the clacking of metal against wood, Peter's footsteps, and immediately he returned to his former behaviour: clacking his teeth, tugging at his restraints, swiping at the air with taloned hands. Peter stayed a distance away from him and asked,

"Do you know where we are?"

Saliva fell from the man's gaping mouth. The chains dug deeper into skin. The groans grew in volume. He wouldn't get an answer, Peter knew. Peter couldn't do anything for him that would get him to talk. This man needed serious help, not the kind of help that Peter, a fifteen year old could give nor the kind of help that Spider-Man, the crime-fighter could. He needed a damn ambulance, doctors, psychiatrists, an adult. Anyone but him. Peter fought against the pity that welled up inside of him as he watched the man mindlessly struggle. There was nothing he could do for him. Nothing at all.

* * *

An hour passed. Peter had managed to lock the man in the bedroom, after placing what little food and water that he'd found around the house on the bed. Peter had unwound the chain from the man's neck and led him down the hallway, all whilst avoiding his lunges. Eventually, he'd gotten him into the room and he'd then closed the door on him. He was left to himself in the house, once again having to come up with a plan, a next step, even though he just wanted to stop thinking and wait for someone else to find a way out of the situation for him.

He was tired, his feet had weights attached to them and his eyes fluttered closed every time he found himself relaxing. But he was also hungry, pain jabbed at his stomach trying to encourage Peter to eat. But he couldn't, it was impossible, the suit prevented him from consuming anything. He had no doubt that, with his metabolism, he wasn't far from dehydration. He reckoned he had a day or two before his body shut down. It'd already been almost twenty-four hours since his last meal or drink though it felt like longer.

But he also hadn't ever went that long without eating or drinking before so he was clueless about how his body would react in such a situation. How long could he actually survive without sustenance? Peter's breath came short at the questions potential answers. Not long, his brain supplied. At one point, the fear pressed so hard against his mind that he'd tried to claw away at the metal of his suit, desperate fingers attempting to find purchase on whatever they could. It was too tight against his skin. Designed to withstand the most powerful of forces. He couldn't even make a dent. There was also another issue that came along with his suit's inability to retract and eventually he could no longer avoid it.

He had a few options. Number one; start walking and hope to come across civilisation, number two; look around the town to find signs that would help him pinpoint his location on the map, number three; sleep and then do either one or two. He knew sleeping was ineffecient, a waste of time in the face of starvation but he was swaying on his feet, more tired than he ever remembered being and he wasn't sure whether he'd just give up if he started walking straight away. He craved sleep.

Just half an hour, he promised himself, to give him a bit of energy before he set off. Just half an hour. He curled up in the corner of the room, back against the wall, legs brought up to his chest. His eyes closed.

* * *

_The lights, blindingly bright to his enhanced eyes, lit up the otherwise dull and unimaginative street that Peter casually walked along, kicking at the broken glass some drunkard had smashed a few hours before. Further up the road, Peter could see the flashing colors of a police car, almost as glaring as the lampposts running along the pavement. Briefly, he wondered what the police and the small crowd of people were doing, huddled together on the sidewalk, staring down at something he was unable to see._

_He considered, momentarily, whether he should try to help out; maybe someone was injured. However, he came to the conclusion that regardless of whether someone was hurt or not; it was none of his business. It wasn't as if he could do anything, he was only fourteen. So, instead of running up to the officers and offering his assistance, he continued to stroll towards the crowd at the same pace, hoping subconsciously that the cops had been able to help those in trouble._

_When he reached the commotion, he pushed through the wall of people, wanting to quench his curiousity. He looked down. A man laid there, his face frozen in an expression of fear, his hands pressing down on his chest where blood was rushing through, coating his fingers, one of which had a golden band engraved with the letters M.P. The expression on the man's face was unfamiliar to Peter. He'd only ever seen him smiling and laughing, showing his family his bravest faces._

_"Uncle Ben?"_

_A few seconds passed, Peter waiting, hands shaking and eyes clouding over, for a response. For his Uncle to tell him that it was all a joke and show him the smile that Peter found so infectious that he couldn't help but grin right back. The man stayed silent however, still grasping at his chest with the same open-eyed terror. Still dying in the streets of Queens, nobody doing anything but watching as he tried so desperately to hold onto life._

_Peter immediately dropped down beside his Uncle, one hand pushing against his wound trying to stop the bleeding. Another hand against the man's cheek, trying to soothe him one second and trying to keep him awake the next._

_"Uncle Ben, it'll be okay. You'll be okay. An ambulance is coming. They'll help you."_

_He could see blood begin to gurgle from his Uncle's mouth. He was choking on it. He was drowning in his own blood. He glanced around at the bystanders, pleading for their help, practically begging for them to do something other than stand there and watch with pity in their eyes._

_"Help him, please!" he screamed._

_He didn't understand why they just watched, they could've been helping to stop the bleeding or keeping him awake or doing literally anything other than watching. He felt a hand reach towards him, it wrapped itself around his own and squeezed._

_Peter looked back towards his Uncle and saw the expression of terror turn to a small smile. Even in this situation, his Uncle wanted to be brave for him. Peter let out a sob and tears rained from his eyes onto his Uncle's jacket. His Uncle squeezed his hand again, a silent plea for Peter to stop crying, to reassure him._

_"Please don't die."_

_His Uncle opened his mouth as if to say something but nothing came out. He tried another time and was once again unsuccessful. Instead, he just held Peter's hand tighter. Wanting to convey what he meant through feeling alone. But slowly, his grip became weaker and weaker and the light in his eyes became darker and darker. His face smoothed out into one of neutrality, no longer able to feel anything or understand the situation._

_Peter leant forward, hugging his Uncle's body with his head against the man's chest; uncaring of the blood that continued to seep out from his wound. He could still hear a faint heartbeat._

_"Uncle Ben, please don't go." Peter whispered._

_It slowed down._

_"We need you. Aunt May needs you."_

_It stopped._

_"We love you, Uncle Ben, please."_

* * *

Peter awoke with a jolt. He looked up, momentarily confused until he remembered where he was. He was still there, in the old house with the man from before. But now, he could see the room he'd slept in as the early morning light had began to filter in through the windows. He realised then that he'd slept for much longer than half an hour. He leapt up from the floor, stiffness from having sat on the hard ground making his body ache, and he sped over to the locked room, knocking a few times.

"How are you?" he asked, not knowing what else to say.

He received his response fairly quickly, the battering of palms against the closed door and deep groaning. Still in the same state as the night before then. He still didn't know what to do with the man, whether to leave him in the house or bring him help. He wanted to help him. Just hearing the man made his heart ache but he also had to leave and quickly. In the end, however impractical it may have seemed, Peter admitted that the best choice was to take him along. If he left, the man may try to hurt himself again but if he stayed, Peter may end up starving.

Suddenly, Peter remembered the car outside of the house. He could use that to drive both him and the man to the next town or city and hopefully he'd get the help he needed from there. He just hoped it still worked and had enough gas. Peter returned to the kitchen and packed what he could. The map, a half empty bottle of water, a picture of the man's partner from the fridge and a small shopping bag he found shoved into one of the cupboards. He placed all of the items into the bag after checking it for holes and went to release the man from his confinement. As he was about to open the door, he heard a familiar voice,

"Pe--r." it said.

It was Karen's voice.

"Karen? Karen, thank god. You have no idea how scared-"

The HUD of his suit began to flash in front of his eyes. It stayed, for a few seconds, before going dark again. He could see at the top right corner a bright red warning: POWER LEVELS EXTREMELY LOW.

"Karen, where am I? Is everybody OK? Why did the suit shut down? Why has it started working again?" Questions flowed from his mouth, every anxiety, every fear that raged at the back of his mind, finally able to be answered.

"Pe---, two ---ple ou----."

"Karen, I don't know what you're saying."

Her voice continued to cut out. Each of her words became more and more unclear until eventually they morphed into buzzing. The suit was about to shut down again, flashes of red filled his vision, Karen's glitched audio blared through, he didnt have long before he was once again stuck inside of a broken metal suit, unable to escape. Just as the last of its power was used, Peter triggered it to retract and immediately the nanites crawled up his limbs and returned to their original home inside of the piece of metal that was, moments before, on his back. It clanged against the hallway floor.

Peter had expected that once he was freed from his temporary prison, the air would wrap around him and he would finally be able to breath in some fresh oxygen that didn't smell like metal or his own sweat. But as he finally inhaled, he couldn't help but choke on its scent. Its taste. It hung heavily in the hallway, subtle yet overpowering and it invaded his mouth, nose and lungs instantly. A combination of the years old sludge that smothered the floors from unclean boots after hikes in the mountains, bits of uneaten food rotten in their cans, unmoving old air with months of no ventilation and one more scent. Much more prominent than the others. Rot. It wasn't powerful like the stench of his body with its sweat and grime. It was discreet yet it clung to the back of his throat, it was flat but still his stomach twisted at its presence, it was barely noticeable yet somehow the only thing he could focus on. It almost made him wish that he'd still had his suit on. His insides stirred, threatening to release their contents. Not that there was much besides stomach acid anymore.

Peter lifted a hand to his mouth, stifling the scent as best he could. He still had his first suit on underneath the iron spider and despite not having anything else to wear he wanted to take that one off as well; sweat soaked it and made him feel sticky and unclean and unlike its metal counterpart this one was capable of being removed manually.

After removing it, he looked down at himself. Already he recognised the beginnings of starvation. His usually robust muscles, lacked their typical vigor; they were smaller and much of the fat surrounding them had been eaten by his body. His ribs stuck out moreso than previously. He'd already been thin but after having not eaten for a full day and the many fights and long hours of walking he'd had to do, he had lost even more weight. He wasn't going to die from it, it would take at least a couple more days to succumb to starvation but he was certainly much weaker..

Fortunately, the suit no longer hindered his ability to eat or drink so the first thing he did was take the bottle of water from inside the bag and he downed all of it in under ten seconds. It felt like heaven to his dry mouth and throat and he was no longer at risk of dehydration which would've killed him much quicker than anything else. He honestly wished he had more. The otherworldly sensation of liquid sloshing around in his body was addictive. Thoughts of what he'd left with the man in the bedroom invaded his mind unbidden. He could take some of it for himself.

Peter shook his head. The man needed it more than him, it was his food and water, not Peters. Despite this, his hand still trembled against the door handle at the promise of sustenance on the other side. Maybe he could take a bit.. the rattling of the front door pulled Peter from his reverie. He cursed softly to himself and slinked away into one of the rooms lining the hallway. His eyes darted from left to right looking for somewhere to hide; there wasn't much in there barr a small table with a long cloth hanging over its edge, a washing machine and shelves with dusty cleaning products sat on them. He couldn't even hide on the ceiling, the room was far too small and the moment they walked in he'd be spotted.

He crawled underneath the table and pulled the cloth so that it covered the gap at the front. If they took a moment to look around, he was screwed. There was no way they wouldn't notice him. But with it being a storage room of sorts, he hoped that they wouldn't enter at all or linger long enough to tell that something was off. He didn't want to fight anyone. He was almost naked and his face was exposed. He also couldn't be spotted, he had his suits with him, they'd figure out who he was quickly and his identity would be revealed to the world. All he had to do was hide and creep away when he found an opening.

The visitor clomped down the hallway with heavy feet. He could hear each door open and close, much less carefully than he had when first entering but still maintaining an air of hesitance, as if unfamiliar and cautious with their surroundings.

One was breathing deeply, the act of walking seemed to tire them and they were obviously leaning against the wall to support themself. At first, he'd thought there was only a single person but the jangle of a zipper hitting the side of a boot informed him of the other person's presence; they were much more cautious and light on their feet than the other. They reached the bedroom, he heard them attempt to open the door to no avail. He'd found a key to lock the man in the room last night so there was no chance of anybody getting in or out.

"It's locked." a woman said, her voice was low and smooth but emotionless. Not a single lilt or sway in her tone that told of the thoughts in her mind.

"I can see that." was the response she recieved, it was another woman. Her voice took on a sarcastic tone though it wasn't unfriendly. They seemed comfortable enough with eachother that humour like that wasn't off-limits between them.

They continued on until eventually they stood before the room that he was hidden in. His grip on the plastic bag tightened, it crinkled under the pressure. Silence raged on from outside the door in a moment of tense inaction as if they wanted Peter to suffer from the unease and uncertainty of the situation until finally it was pushed open. Slowly, cautiously, feet fell against the floor, closing in on Peter who sat behind a flimsy piece of cloth. Then, they stopped.

He heard bottles being picked up and passed between hands before they were placed back onto the shelves above. The washing machine beside him was opened and closed with a bang. They were checking everything. A hand adjusted the few items sat on top of the table he was underneath, slid them from side to side, picked them up and placed them down, clicked open the bottle of bleach, ran their fingers along the cloth. Then, a tap. And then more. One, two, three, four. Rhymthic as if counting up. Or down. The sound stopped.

Her blade sang as it was unsheathed from its scabbard. Her feet stepped even closer to the table and he could just see the toes of the boots she wore. Peter held his breath. The tip of a katana pushed the cloth up and then settled in front of him.

"Don't move."

 _Shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was messing around with paragraphs a lot when writing this, I'm not too sure how to set it out properly so I'm sorry if it makes it a bit difficult to read.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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